


We Are Normal and Self-Controlled

by SkysongMA



Series: This Is Not About Love [1]
Category: Adventure Time
Genre: Alternate Universe, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-07-29
Updated: 2013-09-20
Packaged: 2017-12-21 16:59:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,469
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/902692
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SkysongMA/pseuds/SkysongMA
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Human AU.  In which Marshall Lee meets a prissy, stuck-up boy at a support group, and the prissy, stuck-up boy won't leave him alone. </p>
<p> </p>
<p>  <i>"So do they go together, or can it be one or the other?"</i></p>
<p> </p>
<p>  <i>"It's one word on my birth certificate," Marshall Lee replies. </i></p>
<p> </p>
<p>  <i>"Then I won't call you Marshall, and you won't call me candy names. It's G.B."</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	1. We Are Normal and Self-Controlled (1)

**Author's Note:**

> Cross-posted from Deviantart. The title comes from Green Day's "Before the Lobotomy."
> 
> This is the first part of a series I'm working on which was not written in order. Still filling in parts. Clicking through the series will take you through the parts in order, but I will add stuff inbetween already posted pieces. So... yeah.

_Week One_  
  
The support group is all boys, and none of them are cute. The circle is full but for one chair, beside Marshall Lee. It leaves thirteen in the room, which both amuses Marshall Lee and makes him nervous. His mother collected superstitions the way other people collected keychains, carrying each one around and passing them to her son when he was old enough to skip over cracks and throw salt over his shoulder.   
  
It's just about time for things to start, though, so he pulls one leg up on the chair and glances toward the door that leads further into the building—surely that's where the counselor will come from. Then they'll have fourteen, and they'll be okay.   
  
A door creaks, and he jumps, but it's not the inner door. It's the one that leads outside. A boy enters, a boy in a white and pink argyle sweater—the color of Bazooka Joe bubble gum. He has rimless square glasses and a pinched expression, and he looks at every chair in the room before sighing, like he knew there would be no spot but next to Marshall Lee.   
  
"Well, fuck you too," Marshall Lee mutters under his breath. He picks at the canvas of his Converse, ignoring the boy as he walks over to Marshall Lee.   
  
The boy sits, tucking his messenger bag onto his lap and scowling at it. He looks like he was sucking a lemon and got stuck that way.   
  
Hahah. Sucking.  
  
The counselor enters, finally, and things get under way. It's just like every tedious support group ever, only in this case you mention what happened to your parents instead of what crime you did or what phobia you have.  
  
"Marshall Lee Abadeer," he says, raising one hand when the circle comes to him. He smiles in the way that always gets him laid, just because he can. "My dad went to cancer, and my mom ditched me when I wouldn't help her hack an ATM."  
  
Some of the boys blink, like they're waiting for Marshall Lee to say it's a joke. Marshall Lee just smiles ambiguously. It's not the truth, but they don't need to know that. Nobody needs to know about his mother. Hannah Abadeer is her own woman, and she's halfway across the world by now anyway.  
  
The boy sitting next to him just sniffs. When he speaks, his voice is pleasant but snobby. "G.B.—"  
  
"No nicknames, please," the counselor says, leaning forward. "Healing can't take place unless we're all honest with each other here."  
  
The boy closes his eyes for a moment, pushing his glasses up on his nose. When he opens his eyes, his face flattens. "Barnabas Gumbold Baldric. Both of my parents were killed in a car accident when I was a child."  
  
Marshall Lee snorts—not at the car accident, obviously, but that's when it comes out. The boy's eyes slide to him, narrowed and deadly. Marshall Lee owns it, like he always does. "Is that seriously your name, dude? What is this, Lord of the Rings?"  
  
"It's a family name." He doesn't clarify which.   
  
"Just for that, I'm calling you Gumbold."   
  
The boy blinks again, then looks back to the counselor.  
  
***  
  
There's less feeling-talking than Marshall Lee expected this first day. The counselor does more talking at them than talking with them, but that's okay; it means Marshall Lee can turn his brain to song lyrics and chord progressions. He doesn't realize he's muttering under his breath—"Potato, tomato, rotate-o..."—until Barnabas-whatever makes an incredulous noise.   
  
When Marshall Lee glances at him, the boy tweaks a brow. He's a hard one, this kid. "Did you seriously just say 'rotate-o?'"  
  
"Maybe I did," Marshall Lee says, sliding toward him. The boy doesn't back away or blush; he stares flatly back into Marshall Lee's eyes. Maybe he's straight, though what kind of straight guy wears argyle? "So what?"  
  
"It's not a word." Marshall Lee raises his eyebrows; the boy continues, unruffled. "And if you're looking for rhymes, there are real words." Marshall Lee's eyebrows go higher. He's been trying to find rhymes for "potato" pretty much since he came up with the idea, but he's hit a wall. The boy just closes his eyes, like the list is written behind his eyelids. "Cato, Plato, NATO—"  
  
"Hey, that's an acronym. That doesn't count."   
  
"Mr. Abadeer?" The counselor's voice cuts across their conversation. His voice makes Marshall Lee think of Ben Stiller. "Is there something you wanted to share with the rest of us?"  
  
Marshall Lee leans back in his chair. "Sure. Is NATO a legitimate rhyme?"  
  
The counselor suggests they take a snack break.  
  
Marshall Lee smirks. He loves fucking with the help. He wanders over to the punch table and pours himself a glass. It's grape. Who likes grape-flavored anything?   
  
"Why do you keep doing that?"   
  
Marshall Lee almost jumps and slops punch on himself. Almost. He's too cool for that. He changes what would have been a jump into a turn, using the motion of his hand to take a drink. Even though he hates grape. "Doing what, bubblegum?"  
  
The boy rolls his eyes and gets a glass of water. "Antagonizing the counselor. You realize that he's reporting to whoever's in charge of your time here. If you make him angry, he's just going to say you're not making any progress and keep you here."  
  
"Or he'll get so pissed he'll send me on just to get rid of me. Trust me, gumdrop. I know how this works." The boy flushes at "gumdrop," but with anger. Marshall Lee smirks, rubbing salt into the wound.   
  
"I'm sure you do. I'm just saying." He sips his water. "Besides, if you keep making him mad, it'll go that much worse for the rest of us. Why can't you lay off?"  
  
"If I had a dime for every time somebody asked me that, I could buy a lot of tampons."   
  
"What does that have to do with anything?"  
  
"Chicks like guys who aren't grossed out by sanitary products, man."  
  
"Who would be?" The boy wrinkles his nose, so confused that Marshall Lee starts snickering.  
  
The boy frowns, like he thinks Marshall Lee is laughing at him, so Marshall Lee leans closer—still testing the boundary. He always knows if he can get someone in bed. It’s just a matter of finding what tripps their trigger (or doesn't). "No, see, that's what I said. Whatever, man."  
  
The boy eyes him, frowning. Marshall Lee stays where he is.   
  
Marshall Lee thinks about doing something more obnoxious to get a reaction, but that really would get him in trouble with the counselor. Something else instead. "...So why G.B.?"  
  
The boy's eyes flick to him, surprised. Marshall Lee just smirks, swirling his drink in his cup. The boy adjusts his glasses. "None of my names belong to me. I'm named after my father and grandfather. I don't like it." He pauses, as though he is going to add something else, and then he shakes his head. His mouth twists to the side. Marshall Lee thinks he is going to leave, and then he asks, "So do they go together, or can it be one or the other?"  
  
"It's one word on my birth certificate," Marshall Lee replies.   
  
"Then I won't call you Marshall, and you won't call me candy names. It's G.B." His eyes flick in the direction of the counselor. "I mean, how is that lying?"   
  
"Shrinks, dude. Gotta hate 'em."  
  
 _Week Two_  
  
This time, G.B. got there before anyone else—Marshall Lee knows because he is there second. His ride insists on making sure he is not just on time but early. He needs a car of his own but bad.  
  
When he goes inside, G.B. is already seated, futzing with an iPad. He glances at Marshall Lee's face, as though wondering if they are going to do… whatever they had done again. Marshall Lee sits beside him, to throw his chips on  _yes_. "So what's with the argyle?" says Marshall Lee.  
  
"Argyle will never be unfashionable. Neither will houndstooth or button-down shirts. It's more economical to buy things that will never have to be replaced, especially since I have to do it with my own money." He scrolls through a list of stock prices.   
  
"Ah, okay. So you're lazy."  
  
"Economical."   
  
"That's just a fancy word for it." G.B. shoots him a dirty look. Marshall Lee just smirks, putting his hands behind his back. "C'mon, dude. I'm lazy, too. Isn't it obvious?"  
  
G.B. wrinkles his nose.  
  
***  
  
When they go around the circle this time, Marshall Lee tells everyone his mother beat him. G.B. frowns in his direction; Marshall Lee pretends not to notice.  
  
***  
  
This time, they are supposed to talk about their feelings or something. Marshall Lee has every intention to bullshit, but G.B. turns around to face him, looking him straight in the eye. He has a gaze that could burn holes in lead, and his knees are brushing up against Marshall Lee's—distracting.   
  
He’s cute. Marshall Lee wants to tweak that pointy little nose.  
  
"Why did you change your story?" G.B. says, in a voice that suggests he is not used to anyone avoiding his questions.  
  
Marshall Lee puts his hands behind his head. Boy has nice eyes, too: brown, with the faintest gold ring around the edges. Marshall Lee’s mother always said those were good luck. "Why did you wear argyle again?"  
  
G.B. wrinkles his nose. Marshall Lee decides to keep count of how many times he does it—it isn't like it irritates him. It’s too cute. "I'm serious, Marshall Lee. That's another thing that'll get you in trouble. And, anyway, it's rude."  
  
Marshall Lee frowns, the first flutter of real annoyance in his stomach. G.B. just sounds so sure of himself. And he’s what—barely seventeen? "How is it rude? I said the same thing about my dad, didn't I? That's the truth."  
  
"There are other people in here who might have had more trouble talking about their families, Marshall Lee. You should be politer to them."   
  
"Are you one?" Marshall Lee sneers, for appearances, but he’s honestly curious.   
  
G.B. shakes his head. "My parents died when I was little. I've just had Pepper—my guardian. I hardly even remember them."   
  
"Then what the heck are you doing here?"  
  
G.B. raises his eyebrows. "I have no parents, just like everyone else in this room. That's what it's a support group for, after all."  
  
"Yeah, but half the people here aren't really there for that." Marshall Lee glances around, taking note of gauged ears and painted nails and shitty juvie tats. "Like me. I am not here because my parents are gone and I'm sad. I'm here because my court-appointed lawyer said I could skip community service if I did this instead."  
  
G.B. lets out a little puff of air, not disapproving but not approving, either. "I'm just here because I can get the trust fund my parents left me early if I receive 'emancipated minor' status. And part of that is proving that I'm psychologically stable and able to deal with my emotions." He glances around, his upper lip curled in unconscious disgust. "Maybe I should have opted for one-on-one therapy, but at least this only goes for a month."  
  
"True that." G.B.'s eyes flicks to his face. Marshall Lee runs his tongue over his teeth. "Go ahead."  
  
"Go ahead with what? I'm not doing anything." But there’s a shifty look in his eyes.  
  
Marshall Lee leans toward him. "Ask me what I did. I'll tell you. I'm not big on keeping secrets—makes my head hurt."   
  
G.B. flushes—his expression is indignant, but he’s really just embarrassed that he's been caught wanting to know.  
  
Marshall Lee's lips curl in a smirk—not on purpose this time. He loves it when he can make people who think they don’t want him beg for it. He has to fuck around a little to get G.B.'s attention, that’s all.  
  
G.B. lets out a disgusted sigh. “All right. Fine. What did you do?” He asks in a monotone, but he’s faking.  
  
Marshall Lee inspects his fingernails. He keeps his voice casual, but inside he’s smirking. And outside too, of course. He’s not good at keeping fun off his face. “I slept with my girlfriend. It was two weeks from her eighteenth, and her dad caught us. He hates me, so he called statutory rape, and… well, it was this or get listed on the sex offender list.”  
  
G.B.’s eyes go flat, like a light has been turned off inside him. The change is so abrupt that Marshall Lee tips his head to one side. “What?”   
  
“You’re lying,” G.B. says. “I don’t like liars.” Marshall Lee opens his mouth, but G.B. continues. “You wouldn’t get a choice in getting listed as a sex offender. The laws in this state are particularly draconian.”  
  
Marshall Lee blinks. He can’t decide if he’s irritated or not—most people never question his stories. “…And how do you know that, gumdrop?”  
  
G.B.’s ears turn pink. He glances around the room—looking for an out, someone else to talk to. Then he huffs. “I’m going to study law. I make it my business to know these things.”  
  
Marshall Lee studies G.B., sucking on his teeth. “You’re quite the studious guy, aren’t you?”  
  
“I have a 4.0,” says G.B.  
  
“Hmmph,” says Marshall Lee.


	2. Chapter 2

_Week Three_  
  
Apparently, despite his objections, G.B. doesn’t dislike him—or maybe he has decided there are no other options.  
  
Whatever. He sits next to Marshall Lee, and that’s all that matters.   
  
The counselor informs them they are trying something different. Marshall Lee isn’t interested—his eyes are flicking over the instruments scattered around the room. He chews on his lower lip, his fingers already itching to pick up the guitar in the corner.   
  
The counselor finally stops talking, and Marshall Lee bolts for the guitar like his life depends on it. Which it often doe. The guitar is scratched and battered, and—as he discovers upon plucking the E string—hopelessly out of tune.  
  
That’s okay. Marshall Lee loves hopeless cases.  
  
“Oh, baby, what did they do to you?” he coos, sitting on the stool. He strums a chord and winces—every string is just as bad. Whistling under his breath, he starts tuning it string by string.   
  
He’s so deep in his music that he jumps when someone addresses him. “Don’t you want to hear the notes?”   
  
Marshall Lee lifts his head. G.B. has pulled a chair up beside him. A cheap keyboard sits on his lap. Marshall Lee just shrugs. “Nah, man, I had to learn how to do without. I taught myself.”   
  
G.B. studies the way Marshall Lee holds the guitar, as though he thinks no self-taught person can be any good. Then he turns on the keyboard and adjusts the settings.   
  
Marshall Lee keeps fiddling with the strings, though he isn’t as focused—he keeps flicking glances at G.B., who seems obsessed with making the keyboard sound less and less like a piano. “So you’re a techno guy?”  
  
“I like synthesizers,” G.B. replies without looking up. “And electronica.” He taps middle C, then plays a melody Marshall Lee recognized.  
  
“Hey, that’s the opening bit from  _Fantasia_ , isn’t it? God, I love that movie. There is nothing better to do than get high and watch Disney, man.”  
  
G.B. sniffs. “It’s  _Toccata and Fugue in D Minor_. But… yes.”  
  
“Yes, you like getting high and watching  _Fantasia_?” G.B. glares at him. Marshall Lee chuckles. “Dude, if you don’t want me to pull your tail, you have to look less funny when I do.”  
  
“I’m not responsible for stopping my behavior. You’re the antagonist.” But he doesn’t move away. Instead, he plays the high part of “Soul Meets Body.”   
  
“You like Death Cab?” Marshall Lee says, lifting his head.   
  
G.B.’s eyes flick to him, suspiciously. “…I find it soothing. It keeps my stress level low.”  
  
“Do you only listen to ‘soothing’ music? That sounds like a boring existence to me.”   
  
“I listen to all kinds of music,” G.B. replies, which isn’t really an answer. He adjusts another knob on the keyboard, and then he taps out an electronica version of the beginning of “Minute Waltz.”  
  
“Who taught you to play?” The question comes out more seriously than Marshall Lee intends—but, then, he takes music seriously. He can’t be friends with anyone who doesn’t like it.  
  
Does he want to be friends with this guy?  
  
G.B. doesn’t answer for a moment, which is good. Marshall Lee has a moment to relax. G.B. plays a series of G-chords. “…My parents.” His voice is affectless.  
  
Marshall Lee’s first instinct is to snark, but, for once, he turns that voice off. Other people care about their parents. Other people aren’t him. “So you kept up with it—after?”  
  
G.B. shrugs. “I like it.”  
  
Marshall Lee isn’t sure how to respond—if G.B. is upset or not. Instead, he plays the opening bars of “I’ll Follow You Into the Dark.”   
  
G.B.’s eyes meet his; Marshall Lee smiles. “I  _love_  Death Cab.”  
  
***  
  
When the session ends, Marshall Lee finds himself sitting outside in the cold. His ride is five minutes late, which, in his experience, means he isn’t showing up. Marshall Lee shoves his hands in his pockets and feels what he expected—no money. Nothing for a cab.   
  
Well, there’s a club a few blocks away. He could probably find someone, get a roof over his head for the night. He hates walking home in the morning, but he has no choice.  
  
“Maybe I should finally buy that fucking phone,” he mutters, shaking his head.   
  
“What?” someone says.  
  
Marshall Lee glances over his shoulder. “Oh. You’re still here.”  
  
“Do you often talk to yourself?” G.B. replies, but not in an unfriendly manner. “If you need to call someone, I have a phone.” He pulls out a Blackberry.  
  
Marshall Lee glances at the little buttons and shudders. “No, thanks. My ride wouldn’t answer anyway.”  
  
The phone disappears. “Do you need a ride home?”  
  
Marshall Lee snorts. “Kid, if you’re not old enough to vote, you’re not old enough to drive.”  
  
G.B. bristles, but then he takes in a deep breath and shakes his head. “Do you goad  _everyone_  this way?”  
  
Marshall Lee smirks. “Since the day I was born, sweetheart.”  
  
“Why is it always ‘sweet’ names with you?” G.B. says, but he isn’t offended. He looks like he is flipping through a dictionary for a word he doesn’t know. “So this is just the way you are.”  
  
Marshall Lee raises his eyebrows. “What’s up with the character examination?”  
  
G.B. shrugs. “I just wanted to know if you needed help, and you responded by antagonizing me. You dislike me, but you keep talking to me. I don’t know why, so I have to acquire more data.”  
  
"...That's the weirdest thing I've ever heard,” Marshall Lee says, putting his hands behind his back. He’s sure he's heard weirder, but he can't think of any examples now.  
  
"Why?" says G.B., apparently serious.  
  
Marshall Lee wrinkles his nose. He'd been ready to scrap or for G.B. to leave him alone, but that has fallen apart, and now he’s just... confused. "Because—I mean—when you want to know people, you just... freaking talk to them, I guess. I mean, that's what I do. That's what everybody does."  
  
"And I'm doing the same thing. Just more purposefully." G.B. shrugs, his eyes never once moving from Marshall Lee's face. Again, Marshall Lee notices the rings of gold around G.B.’s irises. Marshall Lee's mother say they bring you luck, but nobody without parents has any luck.   
  
Marshall Lee snorts. "What purpose? We're just talking."  
  
G.B. shakes his head again. "Actually, I'm wondering if I can introduce you to MoChro." He glances at his watch and sighs. "The answer is probably no, but he'll be here any minute, and you still need a ride."  
  
"...You've lost me."   
  
"I know that. You'll see." And instead of explaining himself, G.B. leans against the wall, looking at something on that way-too-small phone.   
  
Marshall Lee crosses his arms, wondering if he'd just been outclassed. Not likely, but even the suggestion unsettles him.  
  
A few minutes later, a black VW Beetle drives up to the building. Marshall Lee didn't know they made black Bugs. G.B. steps away from the wall and raises one hand in a wave. "Well, are you coming?" he says, glancing over his shoulder. Again, Marshall Lee sees that G.B. has never been denied, that despite the death of his parents he is still used to the universe working out exactly the way he planned.   
  
It’s almost enough to make Marshall Lee turn away and try the club.  
  
But he won't find anyone with a snub nose. Or eyes like that. Shaking his head, he follows G.B. to the car.  
  
The Beetle's driver is dark-skinned and dressed in black. He has a ponytail—also black, except for a shock of white that hangs in his face. When G.B. gets in the car, he frowns.   
  
"This is Marshall Lee," G.B. says, as though he doesn't notice. "He needs a ride."  
  
The driver doesn't stop frowning as Marshall Lee gets in the car. Marshall Lee is half-tempted to put his feet on the back of the passenger's seat, just to be a shit, but he decides against it after noticing the muscles flexing under the driver's shirt. Better not to try.   
  
"Marshall Lee," G.B. says, still as though nothing had happened, "this is Dae-Phuk, but no one calls him that. He likes Monochrome."  
  
"I could hardly guess why," says Marshall Lee, as innocently as he can.  
  
The driver's eyes narrow. He pulls out of park without giving Marshall Lee time to put on his seatbelt.  
  
***  
  
Nobody talks in the car. Marshall Lee calls out a right or a left but otherwise keeps his mouth shut. G.B. fiddles with his Blackberry, which makes Marshall Lee nervous. He hates small technology. And the driver just glares at the road. Could he be any more intimidating?  
  
When they arrive at Marshall Lee’s place—not really his, but close enough—Marshall Lee isn't quite sure what to do. Most of the people he catches rides from are prospective band members or friends with benefits. He doesn't really talk to any of them. And this kid—  
  
Shaking his head, Marshall Lee gets out of the car. "Thanks for the ride," he says, before he can overthink it any longer. Or think about why he’s overthinking it.   
  
 _Week Four_  
  
Next week at the therapy group, Marshall Lee informs everyone that his dad had cancer, just like last time. He says nothing of his mother because he is out of good lies. The slightest of smirks curls across G.B.'s face, but at least the kid's voice is neutral when he introduces himself.  
  
Today they are sculpting. Exactly what this is supposed to do, Marshall Lee never heard, but at least it means no feeling-talking.   
  
He and G.B. take a table by themselves—not like either of them planned it, mind you, but Marshall Lee walks in one direction and G.B. follows, and they sit across from each other. Marshall Lee dumps all the cans of Play-Doh out on the table. G.B. sniffs and picks up a block of pink clay, warming it between his palms.   
  
G.B. seems content to keep quiet, which is frustrating. If he would make some snide comment or wrinkle that stupid nose, Marshall Lee could keep from thinking, but quiet as G.B. is, Marshall Lee can do nothing. He starts making bats out of black and red Play-Doh, but it doesn't help. He wishes for the guitar from last week.  
  
"...Do you want to hear what I did?" he asks, when he finally feels like the silence will smush him like he smushes the Play-Doh.   
  
G.B. doesn't look up from his clay. "Not really. You're not going to tell me the truth."  
  
Marshall Lee shrugs; he feels like there is something holding him down, making everything awkward. Maybe it’s just the ride home; maybe it isn't. "What if I did?"  
  
"I'd rather hear what happened to your mother," G.B. replies.  
  
Without meaning to, Marshall Lee squashes his latest bat flat. He looks down at it, eyes narrowed. "Nobody gets to know what happened to my mother. I never talk about her. Period."  
  
"And that would be why you lie." G.B. plucks a blob of clay off the square and begins rolling a snake between his thumb and forefinger. "Fair enough. Everyone sets limits.  If you're going to tell me, please don't make it lurid. Stick to the facts."  
  
Marshall Lee scowls at him. "Hey! I am sharing a true-life confession with you. The least you can do is appreciate it."  
  
G.B. schools his face to appreciative blankness, the kind of face one wears when listening to bad poetry. “Please, tell me. It’s not because I want to know. It’s because I know you’ll tell me anyway.” That said, G.B. sets down his clay and waits.  
  
Marshall Lee is tempted to rub his third bat in G.B.'s face, but there'll be time for that later.   
  
Half a dozen lies appear in order of believeability in Marshall Lee’s mind. He almost uses one of them, just because of that  _look_  on G.B.’s face. But… Marshall Lee brought it up, so he might as well keep going with it. “I was out of money, and I needed guitar strings, so I decided to steal them. I got caught. They told me I could do this or community service.”  
  
“That’s not bad,” G.B. says, after a long pause. “What you did, I mean.”  
  
“Not if you ask the shop guy. Way he went on, I stole the goddamn Hope Diamond,” Marshall Lee replies without looking up. He’s irritated, but not enough to shut up. If he keeps talking, he’ll maybe figure out what is going on.  
  
“Yes, but it’s not really enough to—” G.B. pauses, frowning in concentration. A furrow appears between his brows. Marshall Lee frowns at his hands. He doesn’t like being studied so closely, and yet he doesn’t want G.B. to stop looking, either. Though he doubts G.B. is thinking about his eyes.   
  
G.B. purses his lips. “It’s not enough to justify the way you act.”  
  
Marshall Lee snorts. “Who said I was acting?”  
  
G.B. holds up three fingers, looking from them to Marshall Lee, and ticks things off. “First, you lie about everything. Second, you pay a lot of attention to what other people think of you.”   
  
Marshall Lee bristles. G.B. uses his free hand to push his glasses up his nose. “I have evidence.”  
  
It’s an invitation, so Marshall Lee raises his eyebrows.   
  
G.B. nods. “You don’t ignore other people. You shave, your nail polish is never chipped, and you dress to your best advantage. If you didn’t care, none of these would apply.”   
  
G.B. pauses, and then he snaps his fingers. “That’s what it is! You’re a  _performer_.” He leans back in his seat, crossing his arms over his chest. “I knew there was a word for you. I just couldn’t think of it for some reason.”  
  
Marshall Lee feels like he did getting into G.B.’s car: he is a deflating balloon. He wants to be angry that he’s been seen through so easily, but that’s just the way he would describe himself.   
  
G.B. raises his eyebrows. “Would that be inaccurate?”  
  
“Well, no, but—” Marshall Lee sets his chin on the table, frowning at his bats. He can’t even manage to glare at them. “Finish your fucking list. Maybe then I’ll be less confused.”  
  
“Such is the purpose of lists,” G.B. replies. “Three. Despite your best efforts to appear callous and heartless, you listened when I asked you not to do things that irritate me.” He pauses and lifts another finger. “I suppose there’s a four, because despite your actions, you seemed a little guilty when you talked about the shopkeeper.”  
  
Marshall Lee sits up. “No I didn’t!”   
  
G.B. raises an eyebrow, unmoved. Marshall Lee looks away, rubbing the back of his neck with the hand that isn’t covered in Play-Doh.  “I mean…” He sighs. “Yeah, okay, I felt bad. I thought it was some big chain store. That’s no big deal—they can take losing the cash. But apparently that guy financed it all with his own money, and he had to pay for the lawyer and everything.” He looks at his half-finished bat. “…I got off easy ‘cause I apologized to him.”  
  
G.B. nods, like he is checking off another point. Marshall Lee glares at him through slitted eyes, but he is too embarrassed to come up with a good smart remark. “It’s good to know you have a sense of remorse as well. I suppose that does leave a question, though.”   
  
G.B. lowers his head to the table so he can look Marshall Lee in the eye, like a scientist sizing up a lab rat. Marshall Lee makes an obscene face, which G.B. ignores.  “ _Why_?” G.B. says.  
  
Marshall Lee blinks. “Are you seriously—” G.B. keeps staring at him with that super-intense face. Marshall Lee closes his eyes. “God, for a second there, I almost thought you had a brain.”  Then he flops back in his chair and shakes his head. “Kid, you are  _weird_.”  
  
“I’m serious!” G.B. says, sitting up. “I don’t see the benefit of such a façade!”   
  
“I know you are. That’s what makes it funny.” Marshall Lee knows he ought to be frustrated, because this is one of the stupidest things he’d ever heard, and yet…   
  
He studies G.B.—the frustrated pout, the crossed arms, the well-kept hair. The love of music and technology. And the sob story. “You know… I don’t really get you either.”  
  
“At least it makes two of us,” G.B. mutters.   
  
***  
  
As soon as they are released, Marshall Lee bolts. He stands underneath the rain gutter and wishes, as he sometimes does, that he smoked. It seems like it would make life simpler.   
  
Someone walks up to him. Marshall Lee tips his head up just enough to see G.B. through the curtain of his hair. “…You need a ride tonight?” G.B. says.  
  
“Beats walking.” Marshall Lee leans against the building. “…Been thinking, Gumbold.”  
  
G.B.’s flustered expression grounds Marshall Lee. He can deal with flustered, much better than he can deal with pretty eyes or the seriousness in them. “Don’t—”  
  
“It’s what the initials stand for, isn’t it?” He winks at G.B.  
  
G.B. scowls. “Nevertheless. I have expressed my preference, and you were doing such a good job of honoring it.”  
  
Marshall Lee kind of likes the way G.B. makes everything he says too complicated. It’s cute, like G.B.’s button nose. “Yeah, yeah, okay. Not the point anyway. My point is—this crap’s over.” He nods at the building. “Problem is that both of us’ve still got a puzzle to solve.”  
  
G.B.’s eyes widen, just slightly, and he takes a step back. He looks over his shoulder, as though checking for an approaching car, and clears his throat. “Well—” He swallows and seems to get hold of himself. “My guardian. Pepper. She said she was going to make a nice late dinner for me when I got done. Spaghetti and meatballs, garlic bread. That sort of thing. It’s supposed to be just me and her and Monochrome, but… I suppose you could come. If you wanted. She always makes too much food anyway, so it’s not like it’d be an imposition.”  
  
Marshall Lee almost says no. He doesn’t do the cuddly family dinner thing. But that would be a no to everything, and he doesn’t want to commit to that. You can always wiggle out of things. Wiggling back in is the hard part. “…Eh, it’s better than anything I’d get at the dive back home.”  
  
G.B. nods, stiffly. “Good. Just let me call Pepper and let her know.”  
  
Marshall Lee smiles, turning on all the charm he has. G.B. turns away, reaching in his pocket for his Blackberry, but not before Marshall Lee spots his blush.


End file.
